Ruined Suits
by Sad Gargoyles
Summary: (He comes home every day with spoiled shirts and bloodied skin.) The life and death of Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne.


she is 16, he is 18

She sits quietly, a glass in her hand, a modest red dress on her form, and a glaze in her eyes, watching the single crimson carnation that taunts her from the center of the table as she tries to block out the noise of the party.

Passively, she wonders if the Waynes were being cheap or if they just had good taste.

She shifts her glance to the champagne in her hand and tilts her head. Her parents said she was welcome to have some, despite her age, and she felt somewhat obligated by their encouragement to try it.

Perhaps she's had too much, but the thought is idle and it flickers by as quickly as it arrived.

She's trying to distract herself from the people here, from the socialite circle she is supposed to be part of; she sees them talking to one another, every word fake and insincere, used to appeal to whomever they encounter, both parties throwing themselves and their in-genuine words the same way they throw their money at charities: with apathy and abandon.

Her willpower isn't enough to overcome the desire to observe, and she notices their reactions when they come across someone who does not reciprocate their niceties; they start to seethe with obviously hidden malice, laughing delicately but still somehow sounding hateful, swinging glasses of alcohol near their painted lips.

Their refined, raucous behavior nauseates her; she does not know how they can be so oblivious of their own actions.

This is what the world calls civilized, but she has never seen people less intelligent or more heartless.

She wonders if they have any sense of awareness. Perhaps they are not conscious at all; cogito ergo sum, and their souls do not exist.

She tries, at least, to be thankful that no one has approached her, but maybe she needs to stop trying and wondering and supposing; the anger still ruminates and she can't imagine remaining _civil_ if addressed.

It is, of course, right then that a boy walks over to her, graced with light brown hair, cool blue eyes, a quirky grin, and the name Wayne. She raises her eyes to him and smiles politely. "Good evening, Mr. Wayne."

"Good evening, Miss Kane. Are you enjoying the party?"

"Of course," she lies the way she's expected to, because she hates parties and can't think of something else to say, "It's beautiful."

His smile falters because he can hear the lie, and heart twists because she understands.

She curses herself for being what she hates.

He observes her for a moment more, then says, "Would you like to take a walk with me, Miss Kane?"

Perhaps he's had too much wine as well; it's a slightly abnormal suggestion, but she gives him her best smile, trying to make up for the one before, "It would be my pleasure."

He returns the expression and lends her his arm.

They should look like children playing at grown-ups, but they just look like adults.

They make their way through the crowd, wearing pleasant faces and nodding as they pass. It's only when they're outside the brightly lit room, in the gardens of Wayne Manor, the sky darkening and stars beginning to shine, that he speaks again. "Miss Kane, how are you?" He asks, and meets her eyes.

She's surprised at the question, enough that she pauses her walking, and he stops at her cue, still watching for her reaction.

She is never the direct recipient of query; when asked, it is always about her day. Yet here she is, being asked about herself.

She's not entirely sure how to respond, but there's an ease and friendliness in his eyes, and it leads her to relax quickly. So she offers him a real, if uncertain smile and says, "I'm doing well... thank you."

He lights up, clever enough to differentiate between falsity and authenticity.

"And how are you, Mr. Wayne?" She continues, and there's a teasing note in her voice, one that hasn't been there in a very long time.

He laughs, free and unaltered, and it's the best sound she's ever heard, "I'm doing wonderful."

She laughs too (he's infectious), and it's something else she hasn't done in a while. She looks away, something about the oddity of being outdoors when she should be at a party, something about the late night, something about the wine, making her blush just a bit.

"And my _name_ is Thomas," he says, sans ire, extending a hand.

She smiles and grasps it, "Martha."

* * *

They can't exactly go running off together every time they bump into each other; people would talk, and even as teenagers, people associated with Gotham's richest and most righteous families are not to be talked about. It's an easier rule to follow when they both agree the world is a better place without rumors and ignore the way it feels like a gilded cage.

So they sit and chat.

This is usually where Martha would try avoiding people, but inevitably wind up criticizing them, making herself bitter and miserable in the process.

Instead, Thomas talks.

He creates stories for the lives of all the men and women they catch sight of.

Some of them are ridiculous or whimsical, some of them are merely uncanny, and all of them are enchanting. He speaks not a single cynical word of anyone, and as she listens, she begins to understand the way he sees the world.

His stories, they both know, are not true, and they never will be.

 _But she wants them to be real._

* * *

They make a habit of meeting each other at galas, and Martha thinks she might hate them a little less now.

* * *

Martha loves the theater, and although Thomas thinks it's a little too dramatic, he invites her to see _Hamlet_ , and she gladly accepts.

They sit in the first tier up, close enough that they can see the stage with only their eyes, but far enough that they see the big picture.

Thomas finds himself drowning in both the intricacies of the story and the technical and physical brilliance required to pull off its execution, while Martha loses herself in a trance as the experience soaks into her skin.

He expected that, after, she would talk all about it, analyze every single detail, ramble in amazement at its excellency. Instead, they walk side by side in silence, the brisk, clear midnight leaving them in peaceful shock, an exhilarated awe, not touching as the moon smiles down and their carefully cleaned shoes click across the asphalt and the slim black limo drives them home.

He walks her to the door and says thank you and it was lovely, and I will see you again, and she just smiles and says yes, and all they do is nod and meet each other's eyes, and he is certain she is right.

* * *

She sits in front of the easel and he stands by her side and watches.

"Something's off."

"What? It looks perfect!"

"No, the eyes are too far apart," its decisive, like a firm and definite understanding, completely to herself.

"For heaven's sake, Martha, the eyes are _fine_."

She ignores him and goes back to the painting.

"Martha."

Still nothing.

"Martha."

Silence.

"For the thousandth time, it looks _perfect_. You can stop now."

Several moments.

"Are you even listening?"

She continues making small brush strokes.

"Martha."

A couple seconds elapse.

"Yes, Thomas?"

She does not turn from the canvas.

"The eyes are fine," he deadpans.

More silence.

"Martha."

"Shut up, Thomas," in a perfectly sociable voice.

"For the love-"

"You just don't understand the finer details of art. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

He lets his hand cover his face, mumbles incoherently, and shakes his head.

Martha smiles, leans back to observe. "Perfect."

* * *

Almost a year and several charity balls since they met, they run off to the kitchen, for once shirking their duties at his father's command; Thomas is 18 today, and his dad wants his first experience as an adult to be that of a child. The kitchen is secluded from the party, and its vast space serves as an excellent dance floor.

His father likes to listen to music when he cooks, and Thomas makes use of the record player there; he sets the needle and "Jailhouse Rock" lights up the room.

Martha laughs- first at the choice of music, then at Thomas' dancing. It's actually a pretty decent Elvis impression.

 _the warden threw a party in the county jail_

When she thinks he can't be any more ridiculous, he starts to sing, loudly, entirely out of tune, and completely without shame. She tries to think of something to say through the haze of happiness, but all she can come up with is how much she loves this, and that might be too much.

 _the prison band was there and they began to wail_

So she keeps laughing and joins him.

 _the band was jumpin' and the joint began to swing,  
you should've heard them knocked-out jailbirds sing _

17, 19

Their summer is long and warm, but autumn, as it always does, arrives, and when Thomas leaves for his third year of college, they write one another.

The first thing he sends her is in perfect, painstaking cursive, and it's three pages long; it's filled with a brief description of his life over the past several weeks followed by questions about her own life and cheerful well wishes.

She composes her own in response, makes it four pages, and demands to know more about what he's doing (in the form of a question, of course).

His response is five pages, and she grimaces at what looks likes careful, exact writing which must've taken hours.

Promptly, she spends the weekend writing six.

* * *

He visits home every break, and they take long walks and don't remember where they went, only each other's company, only a flow of words, sometimes ceasing for the chirps of birds or the soft wash of air and it's journey through the leaves.

When it snows, Thomas shows her every hidden room in the manor and they hunt for more, where they hide chocolate for no reason other than its sake, to pretend it's a secret when they sneak bit by bit between their lips and swallow without chewing.

* * *

She takes her time in high school, dreading the inevitable end, but when she leaves to a university the next year, nothing changes.

18, 20

Martha's mother is proud and demanding, and her father is stern and self-righteous. Part of her believes they are secretly rulers of some kingdom, or they think they are, because they are unapologetic and bold, and have impossibly high standards. She tries to live up to them, but she knows she always fails. She judges them harshly, she knows this too, but she also knows she would be lying if she called them bad parents. They raised her well, she likes to think. It is good that they challenge her, that they encourage her self improvement, even if she knows it will never be sufficient. She does not know if she has pleased or disappointed them as a daughter; she doesn't see them often enough.

They are busy managing people's lives and changing the world, but she knows they love her, and she loves them. She supposes there isn't much else that matters.

His parents are kind; his father is smart and commanding, and his presence fills the room. She feels like she doesn't need to be a flower on the wall when he's there, and that even if she wants to be, it's okay. He's quiet but loud, stern but sweet, like a brown bear with soft eyes and a huge heart. He seems to know this, and appears to enjoy using it to his advantage.

Once, she saw him angry at an employee of his; the man committed fraud, stole from the company. Mr. Benjamin Wayne lectured him. Loudly. And quite publicly, and rather without any subtlety whatsoever. By the end of it, the employee was probably more ashamed of himself than Benjamin was disappointed in him. It was mildly terrifying, and Martha reminded herself never to get on his bad side.

Then he turned to Martha and Thomas, and the vehemently angry expression on his face vanished in an instant. He smiled and winked.

Thomas quickly excused them and they barely made it out of the room before they were bent over laughing, tears of mirth at the corners of their eyes, struggling to breathe.

After several minutes they collected themselves, then looked at each other and started all over again.

* * *

His mother is passionate and brilliant. She has that same energy about her, the fire and the joy, but just enough reserve to place her among the regal. Martha knows what it feels like to hold back the way she does, but Laura wears it well. She's a flame tempered by herself, and Martha can only guess how much self-discipline it must take to control such spirit, but Laura has had many years to refine the drive, so the fire is still wild but somewhat stymied, and it's focused, powerful.

She's just been confronted by another of the Waynes' employees, and Martha thinks they should really hire more selectively, because this person has just questioned Laura's charity work, and it's rather clear why.

And it's here Martha discovers how frightening the traits of an angry, excitable person are; here, when the storm brews, the winds are not wild. The lobby is overtaken instead by the calm, cold, quiet, and the stillness echoes.

It's one of the scariest things she's ever seen, intimidating in a way Mr. Wayne's anger wasn't, because when Laura turns to her and Thomas, she grins, but her eyes are wider than they should be, just by a little, and Martha feels anything but reassured. She manages a small smile in return, and Thomas does too, but they leave quickly and don't come back, because there is something untamed in his mother, and Martha doesn't want to see it anymore than Thomas does.

19, 21

Martha has decided she likes Thomas's kitchen. It has music, it's isolated, and usually it also has Thomas. He somehow knows this, even though she's never said so, and on her birthday, they go there like they did three years ago and have ever since.

She should not be surprised, though she supposes the energy thrumming through her might be anticipation and not shock.

She doesn't fight off her smile.

Thomas places a record on the table, and as music streams, smooth and soft, he turns to Martha and bows ridiculously, holding out his hand, "May I have this dance, my lady?"

It's meant in mock formality, but there's a serious look ever present in his blue eyes, and though Martha is grinning, she finds her voice is solemn. "It would be my pleasure."

 _He's such a dork_ , she thinks, and it's one of the reasons she loves him. She takes his hand and Frank Sinatra's voice echoes off the walls.

 _someday, when I'm awfully low,_

 _when the world is cold,_

 _I will feel a glow,_

 _just thinking of you,_

 _and the way you look tonight._

20, 22

They watch the stars through the glass paneling on the ceiling in one of his family's rooms.

Thomas delves into theories on the atomic structure of black holes, and how much they still don't know, and Martha names the constellations and their histories and meanings.

"When do you think the world will end?" he asks after she mentions the Mayan calendar, still facing the sky as they lie parallel on the wooden floors in the empty room.

For half a moment, they consider entropy, thermodynamics, and their inevitable deaths, and talking about it, but in the end they don't.

All she says is, "I don't know."

21, 23

They don't just donate money; Thomas and Martha volunteer. They're at a small, run-down hospital, one of the many in Gotham. Thomas is in med school, so it's great for him to be in the environment, but she sees the heaviness in the room weighing on him. This is supposed to be a general hospital, but it's been transformed into a perpetual ER, somewhat shady and less than professional. They were both supposed to be there to cheer up the waiting families, but when the staff learned about Thomas' area of interest, they recruited him without further question. So now, Martha sits with a book in her hands and addresses the little children who've gathered around her as they wait, tensed in fear and a lack of control, preparing for the verdict on the lives of their loved ones.

Somehow they're enthralled. The kids stare with slightly opened mouths, eyes wide with awe as they're drawn into the story, entranced by the way the woman reads. Many of the adults, husbands, wives, friends, and family, catch themselves listening in, holding their hearts as they cling to each word.

* * *

Thomas stands over the sink in the small bathroom and watches water run over his hands. He can see the blood that never touched his skin. He can see the angry eyes of the tanned boy decorated with bruises and cuts, fists clenched but still shaking, trying so hard to look fierce and brave, looking to Thomas like nothing but a lost little boy.

He wonders if there's anyone out there waiting for him.

* * *

Martha looks at the dark circles under her audience's eyes.

"This must be home," she reads, "I know I've always wanted a home."

She wonders how many of them wake up in the morning wishing they could go back to their nightmares.

"Lisa sat down with Corduroy and began to sew a button on his overalls," she continues.

Most of the children are smiling, probably unconsciously, the others glassy eyed and distant, like they're dreaming. She knows she can't keep those smiles, those dreamy looks on their faces forever, but _what she wouldn't give_.

Escapism isn't a healthy coping mechanism, she knows (there is a lot that Martha knows), but it's always worked for her.

"I've always wanted a friend." She finishes the book, and after a moment of contented silence, they clamor for more. She smiles and finds another book.

Hours later, the people are all gone and Martha sits alone with a pile of books in her lap. Thomas walks to her side, and without a glance between them, takes the seat next to hers. She drops her head against his shoulder, and he drops his head against hers.

22, 24

Martha claims her interest in business is purely coincidental; how was she to know she'd make a friend of someone who owned a company?

Thomas thinks it's funny, and tells her she'll be an amazing CEO.

She just rolls her eyes, because that was a very forward statement, _is he really implying what I think he's implying?_ and she's never had intense ambitions before, and although her expression is sour, she thinks, as she watches him laugh, that she might want to develop some.

23, 25

He's training to be a surgeon now, is a resident at Gotham General, and some days he comes home with an expression on his face. Days like these, when he walks through the door with sadness in his eyes, all she can do is watch. Sometimes she wonders why he chose this profession. Why he decided that, for the rest of his life, he wanted to watch people die. But she always remembers.

He wants to save them.

 _Fool._

She watches his face, sees the weariness in his eyes, but the tired, cool, blue loses her attention and her gaze drifts to his shirt, her visions like a magnet. It's white, button down, and long sleeved, the type usually accompanied by an expensive suit. She's sure he was wearing scrubs before, to protect the shirt when he took people apart, and the pure white cloth is far removed from the scene of the hospital, but despite its unmarred, barely rumpled nature, she sees red splotches. Days like these, she looks at his shirt and sees blood there. She imagines maroon patches spreading across his torso, the smooth liquid not his own. Little bits of cellular, thin salmon spots decorate his hands, the strange, sinewy orange and pink almost enough to make her gag. She's always been a little morbid. But there's something about Thomas that exudes broken love in the form of beating red blood and ruined suits.

24, 26

She knows he wants to create an extravagant scheme, to set up an overly elaborate little plot that will end in him asking her to marry him.

But he knows she doesn't want that. She wants a simple proposal, something less grand and more quiet, so he leads her to the gardens where they walked once and kneels, holding up a thin golden band with a single diamond embedded in it, and asks, without speech or ceremony, or even her last name, "Martha, will you marry me?"

She smiles and it would look underwhelming to anyone watching, but he can see the sparkle of tears in her eyes as she tells him, "Yes," and he slides the ring onto her finger and even though he should practice restraint, he pulls her into a hug and kisses her hair, and he can feel her heart beating quickly and her shaky laughter as she kisses back.

* * *

Her white dress reaches just past her toes, is form fitting and lacy, elegant and beautiful, just like her. Her dark hair, curled around maroon roses, nearly matches the shade of her eyes, and she looks vibrant against the light cloth. It's cliche, but Thomas is sure she must be an angel.

Their eyes don't break contact until he kisses her softly, and he wonders how he got so lucky, while she wonders the same thing.

25, 27

Alfred and Thomas met in med school overseas, when Thomas was on an internship abroad. They were great friends, apparently, and kept in contact.

Thomas had spoken of him before, so Martha is hardly surprised when Thomas asks if it's okay to have company, and a day later, a man stops by their house and greets her with an English accent and according manners. He has light brown hair combed to the side, grey brown eyes, and a slightly thin frame.

She invites him in and the next thing she knows, the three of them are drinking whiskey and laughing about some military training mishap Alfred is describing in detail.

(Apparently trying to kick a door down with both of your feet simultaneously does not have the intended effect.)

Several days later, she hears Thomas pick up the phone, chuckle, and wish the other end of the line good luck.

He hangs up after a minute more and a goodbye and sits, resting his chin on his hand at the table, across from where she's filling out paperwork for the company they'll soon own.

After a long silence, he speaks, "How would you feel about hiring a butler?"

She looks up at him for several moments and then laughs.

* * *

"Were you still looking for a job?"

She hears him talking into a phone again, and she grins as she walks past.

* * *

By the next week, their household has increased to three members.

It's this same year Martha's parents pass.

"I'm calling about your parents," the shaky voice on the other end of the line says, someone she recognizes vaguely as a friend of the family.

It was a car crash, the fault of a now dead drunk driver, the leading cause of death it Gotham.

They say it was instant, painless.

It still makes Thomas angry.

Martha carries the burden well, and he's in awe of how effortless she makes it look.

It's only in the quietness of the early mornings when they watch the sunrise that she whispers her doubts aloud, wondering if it's wrong of her to feel so little at the death of the people who raised her.

"What's wrong with me?" She asks, and it sounds broken.

"Nothing," he promises, as he pulls her close and kisses the top of her head, "nothing."

26, 28

He taps her nose and winks, and though her face remains stern, he can see the twinkle in her eyes. "Thomas," she says pointedly, voice verging on a warning even though he can hear the laughter there.

"What?" He asks, perfectly innocent.

She shakes her head and looks back down at her papers before the grin can break onto her face, but he knows it's there anyway, and he laughs.

* * *

He lifts her by the stomach and spins her around, and she's too shocked to react except to yell his name.

"Thomas!" There's surprise and chastisement, but he can read the amusement bleeding through.

He sets her down and does his best not to chortle.

"What?"

She covers her mouth but it doesn't help, because the next thing he knows, they're holding each other and laughing.

* * *

They're at another of the social events, and in general, Thomas doesn't seem to mind most of the people, though she knows he only respects a few of them. Today though, his frustration is evident, likely only to her. He hadn't wanted to talk to her about work today, not that they'd time anyway. She understood; he was a surgeon. There was only so much he could want to tell.

The sound of a voice distracts her from the memory of his uncharacteristically blank face as he greeted her.

"You'll be happy to know," a tubby man is telling them, "our business is on the rise," his puffy cheeks are red from exertion and the buttons on his black vest look ready to pop.

"That's wonderful news, we're very happy for you," Thomas says as he smiles, more a pained stretch of the lips than anything. It's a weak, forced effort, especially for Thomas. He's usually almost exuberant, even at galas, naturally friendly with everyone he meets.

This man whose name Martha can't even remember senses that he's not wanted, and he might be something of an idiot, might be aggravating, but he's a human too, and apparently he gets it.

"Goodnight to you, then," he hastily nods at them.

Martha picks up the slack for her husband, "Goodnight, sir," she says, gracefully titling her head in response. Swift but effective, and exactly her style.

He leaves and they're allowed a moment alone.

Thomas glances at her, "His business isn't the only thing on the rise," he mutters, and there's a little darkness in his tone, a little hatred as he lets his eyes scathe over the man's figure. It's in poor taste, and unusual for him.

Martha says, "Thomas!" Her tone is slightly humorous, slightly reprimanding, and just _slightly_ carries the undercurrents of fear, intense concern, horror.

He's not sure whether the frustration is meant to be for him or directed at him.

He winks but his smile is small. It's a crooked smirk and it's knowing but it's also a little sad, and Martha doesn't like it.

"Thomas," she says again, and this time it's supposed to be soothing.

"What?" He teases even though the question sounds empty and cracked.

Her responding smile is more a grimace than anything.

"Sorry," he mutters.

Another guest walks up before she can speak.

27, 29, 0

It isn't a very good year. Thomas loses both his parents within just a few days of each other; his mother to a stroke and his father to heart failure. They say people who've been together long enough forget how to live without each other, and Thomas knows that the stress of losing a lifelong partner can be too much for a worn body to handle.

He still feels cheated that his father would leave without him.

The entire weight of the company falls on their shoulders, and when he goes to work, Thomas wonders what he was thinking when he became a doctor.

The world looks dull and dead to his grief ridden eyes, until one evening, Martha pulls Thomas close and met his gaze, barely able to contain her joy.

She's waited all day to talk to him, and the two little words sound almost anticlimactic as they hit the air, but she doesn't notice.

"I'm pregnant."

His features light up the same way they did when she first met him, and the sweet, boyish grin melts her heart all over again.

"Martha," he chokes through happy tears as he hugs and kisses her, short on words, though despite his charisma and eloquence, she realizes, he's always used them sparingly and only ever with purpose. Loaded and without waste was his language, her man of action and promises kept.

She laughs as tears spring to her eyes too and she wraps her arms around him.

* * *

The baby is due today and they've got several doctors, nurses, and Alfred for support as they wait in one of the large, comfortable rooms of the manor. Some of the nurses seem to find him charming, and of course they're impressed with his medical knowledge and the fact that he's _Thomas Wayne_ , billionaire philanthropist. He's always been good with people though, even the most difficult ones, and his kindness never fails to make her smile. Martha would almost be jealous, but she's actually about to deliver his child, so she settles for vindictively amused.

* * *

It's ridiculous to think the boy is adorable. He was just born; his face is rounded, chubby, and red.

Martha thinks he's the most precious thing she's ever seen.

Thomas looks at Martha resting against the backboard of the bed, black hair tangled, skin flushed, love in her eyes, and a baby in her arms, and thinks she's never looked more like a queen.

28, 30, 1

Alfred coos over the baby sitting in the bassinet, holding up a rattle and shaking it.  
Martha laughs, "He's got you wrapped around his finger."

Alfred can't keep the fondness from his voice, "I believe he does," then he pauses, deadpans, "But you're certainly above all that."

She slaps his shoulder, laughing again, then, in a mockingly serious voice, "You're most certainly right!" It's a joke, but somewhere in her tone is the hard edge of a mother's fierce protection and love for her child. Alfred doesn't comment on the steely look in her eyes as she takes the rattle from the butler's hand and listens to Bruce's excited squeals.

29, 31, 2

Alfred, for reasons he can no longer fathom, was under the impression that teaching Bruce to make tea was a good idea. He _had_ reasoned it would keep the boy busy, distract him from the absence of his parents. To be fair, it worked. And it was amusing, at first. But by the end of the third hour and the 872nd (mostly incoherent) question (Bruce was counting), Alfred is thinking he might lose his mind. He can confidently say that he has no idea why, when, or how the topic of conversation shifted from making tea to the conjugation of French verbs, but it did happen. Another 21 minutes and 40 seconds later (Bruce was also counting), the boy decides he doesn't want to ask questions anymore, and is determined to find the answers himself. Previously, initially, Alfred advised against that; a little boy and boiling water was not usually a good combination. But, fortunately, Bruce is long over tea, and Alfred is mostly certain that trilingualism endangers nothing but his own sanity.

Alfred was there when Martha and Thomas had a discussion with another doctor about Bruce's "premature" reading; somehow he'd already got it down. The doctors said that's not normal, but it's okay. You should probably have him take an intelligence test.

They didn't, deciding they'd rather not make a huge deal of it, they will encourage him and teach him themselves, thank you. Bruce seems to prefer it that way.

So, when they relocate to the library, and Alfred watches the black haired child climb ladders to reach books, collecting a miniature library, which he promptly organizes and begins to compare, he is not surprised.

He has to admit, it's kind of adorable.

* * *

Bruce tries sketching. He's not very good at it yet; he does not even particularly enjoy it. His intention is to create a birthday gift for Alfred, but the crude image of an airplane is hardly decipherable, and Bruce is not accustomed to failure. "I wan it to be perfect," he says to his mother.

"Nothing's perfect, Bruce," she chastises kindly, a hint of sadness in her voice, and the admonishment sounds directed inward. Thomas is not surprised. She dotes on Bruce, and it's difficult to image her angry at him.

Bruce, however, doesn't answer, just glares at his ruined artwork as his father looks on with concern and his mother silently agrees. (She wants everything to be perfect too.)

30, 32, 3

They've begun to put child safety locks on their cabinets and drawers; it was never something either of them considered before, but Bruce is too curious for his own good, and they don't want their son getting into anything worse than silverware. It takes their best preventative measures, including expensive, tamper-proof, digital locks _along with_ simple plastic ones and a long conversation with their child about safety before either of them feel comfortable again. That's why Thomas is surprised when he sees Bruce in the kitchen, late at night, on the floor with a huge steak knife resting precariously in his palms.

He startles when he hears Thomas enter and the cool metal falls to the floor. Bruce's face fills with shame and guilt, and on instinct, Thomas sweeps forward quickly to snatch the silver utensil and his son.

"Bruce, what were you _thinking_?" He demands, "You _know_ you're not supposed to get into there!" He stops himself before he wakes Martha, even though he's too worried to be truly mad and too soft spoken to be very loud.

Bruce turns away as much as he can in his father's arms, voice wavering. "Sorry daddy," and he sniffles.

Thomas sighs. He's always been too soft, but all he can think to do is thank God no one was hurt. As he walks to deposit the knife on their counter and carry Bruce back to his room, he speaks. "That's alright," reluctantly, "Just _promise_ you won't do it again."

Bruce meets his eyes, large and sparkling with unshed tears, "M'promise."

"Good," Thomas nods firmly and sets his son down in his bed, tucks him in, and wishes him sweet dreams. "Sleep well, Bruce."

"You too, daddy."

He goes back down to the kitchen for the glass of water he didn't get before and to lock the drawer again, but finds that it's already closed tight.

He stares at it for several minutes, then messes with the contraption, and finally places the knife back in its spot, but as far as he can tell, and despite the brand's 'tamper evident' promise, the drawer was never unlocked.

Thomas rubs his eyes, thinks, _I must be tired._

He tells himself he lets it go.

31, 33, 4

Whenever she has the chance, Martha sits and plays piano and each time, Bruce wants to sit next to her, and she lets him.

He never asks to join, declines when she offers, because there is something, he feels, too beautiful about the way his mother's hands move, a grace that he could never match, and it tells him that to even try would be an insult.

He loves when she plays grand, uplifting songs, but he is entranced by ones she plays in minor chords. Something about the darker notes holds his attention fiercely and reminds him of her.

* * *

She paints with a silent passion and Bruce sits quietly in the room, waiting, but she beckons to him, because art is for everyone. He sits next to her and she's all smiles, and his eyes are sparkling a little, and she sees. But he doesn't paint, doesn't even try, because there's something to him that's profound and untouchable about the way she does it, and far be it from him to try imitating perfection.

* * *

Thrice every day for a month, without fail, Bruce asks to go outside. Once in the morning, once after lunch, and once at night. At first, they think little of it; he alternates between asking Martha, Thomas, or Alfred, and it takes them a while to realize he's going methodically. He disappears then, for thirty minutes exactly, along with a part of each meal he claims to be hungry for but never eats.

Thomas thinks they should ask him what he's doing, but when they do, all he will say is, "I was playing."

Thomas doesn't like how honest it sounds.

Martha says they should follow him, so they do. It's his evening trip, and they walk across the yard and converse quietly as the sun begins to disappear behind the trees.

"I'm worried about him."

Martha sighs. "Me too." It takes her a while, and the air settles on them during the pause, the stars softly lighting against a dull indigo, peaceful despite their tension, but Martha speaks again, and it's strained and aching, "Maybe he's just growing."

They remain silent the rest of the way across the meadow.

They find Bruce sitting near one of the manor's smaller, shallower ponds, enclosed by several pines–a place he has been warned not to get too close to without an adult, where he holds out kernels of corn to a small but well-fed duck. It appears to be about a month old.

He gently pets its chest, coaxing it into his arms. The golden brown mallard nips gently at his fingers, and Bruce murmurs to it, "It's okay," he says soothingly, "You're okay, Gandhi."

Thomas and Martha look at each other, and she raises a hand to her mouth, smothering a smile, eyes brightening and wrinkling. Thomas lets his lower lip drop, works his jaw and runs a hand under his chin, has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling.

They turn back to watching Bruce, who has since convinced the duck to relax onto his legs while he pets it and looks out to the horizon, a contented, meditative expression playing itself out on his face, highlighted by the last orange glow of the earth's closest star.

They stand just as he sits, until the sky darkens and they are nudged from their reverie by the chilling temperature. Bruce shifts, so they return silently to the house, and wait casually in the sun room, busying themselves with paperwork, for him to come back. He doesn't look cold when he walks in, though the rolled up sleeves on his casual button down couldn't have kept him warm. He smiles when he sees them, "Hi!" He says, radiating joy.

His cheer is infectious.

"Hello, Bruce!" His mother says, lip twitching, "How're you?"

He shrugs blissfully, "I'm good."

She chuckles, "Wonderful. You had a good day?"

"Yes," he says, "Did you?"

"Yes," she says, lips fully curved now, "I did."

"And you, daddy?"

"I did too," Thomas is trying not to laugh.

"Good!" Bruce chirps, and then walks the rest of the way to his room in a daze, and they watch him with amusement in their eyes.

It's only when they're in their own room, resting parallel on their bed, that a few of Martha's tears fall and she says, "I think he's okay."

Thomas rolls on his side to look at her. "I think you're right," he says, poker faced.

The dam bursts and they laugh like they haven't in too long, tears of mirth in their eyes.

* * *

For the next several weeks, they have Alfred keep an eye out and attempt not to hover, but they do not confront Bruce.

They call it an exercise in independence, an experience from which he will learn. They hope he will tell them all about it, but they do not expect him to, and they do not ask.

* * *

One day, he comes back from his morning visit crying, and hides in his room, thinking they don't notice when he passes the living room where they are working.

After a shared glance, they cautiously follow him upstairs, where they are greeted by his closed door and the soft echo of muffled sobs.

"Bruce?" Thomas tries to knock, but the little boy does not respond, and the hallway is suddenly silent. "Can I come in?"

An unwavering voice says, "Please don't."

Thomas frowns, but Martha gestures him away. _Let him have space_ , she thinks.

As he draws slowly from the handle, Thomas tries one more time. "Let us know if you need anything, okay buddy?"

"Mhm."

* * *

An hour later, nearing lunchtime, he walks out of his room, face dry and without tear stains, only the remnants of unclear eyes an imperceptible sign of his misery.

"Bruce," his mother says when he enters the dining room, "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he claims, sounding distracted, "How're you?"

She makes herself smile, "I'm alright. Come sit next to me," she pats the chair beside her.

He does, and she wraps an arm around his shoulder, rubs his back until he relaxes into her side.

A few moments later, Thomas appears, stops for second when he sees them, smiles, and sits on Bruce's other side, bringing an arm around his wife and resting his head against hers.

Alfred finds them that way, half asleep, and clears his throat.

Martha and Thomas glance up lazily, raised eyebrows a question with a little bit of challenge.

"Shall I serve lunch, sirs and ma'am?"

A lull.

"I'm not sure-" Thomas begins, but Alfred cuts him off.

"It's pizza, Mister Wayne," and there's a wry fondness in his tone.

Bruce glances up a little, shifts an unbelieving, thrilled look to the butler, and breathes out the word, almost afraid of the answer. "Really?" He sounds like someone who was just told a miracle came true.

"Yes, Master Bruce. _Really_ ," and the sparkle in Alfred's eyes turns sad as his voice turns sweet, and it takes all his determination not to tremble and all his sternness not to cry, that a little boy should be so awed by pizza.

Bruce smiles, tentatively, subdued and darkened but brightening.

" _Thank you._ "

* * *

It takes them hours to convince him to talk about what happened, for Bruce to admit that he raised a duckling and that it died, inexplicably, after less than two months.

His voice breaks when he tells them, and he fights not to cry.

"She was so sweet, but she didn't have a family, and all the other ducks were mean to her–it wasn't fair!" He pauses, feels himself getting worked up. Releases the stiffness in his limbs. "I always wanted a duckling," softly.

"Why did you never ask for one?" his mother inquires.

A hiccup. "I don't know," he whispers.

"What was its name?" Thomas gently shifts the subject.

"Gandhi," he says, not correcting the pronoun, and they have to bite their lips to refrain from asking why.

"We'll give her a beautiful resting place," Martha promises, and they do, carving the name into a polished stone and planting an array of golden flowers under one of the oaks near the pond.

When Thomas asks if he wants to offer a few words, Bruce does not have to think before he answers, and his voice is rough but steady, simple and uninflected, a relay of facts.

"There are none."

32, 34, 5

When Bruce comes home from school with a confused, vaguely upset frown on his face, Martha finds herself assailed by worry, and instantly fears the worse.

She asks how his day was, trying to keep her tone amenable and not too insistent or severe.

"It was fine," he says, like he does almost every day, but today it doesn't sound like he means it.

Martha doesn't ask what's wrong, just waits.

He finally elaborates, clearly hoping to make it sound casual, "My reading group finished _The Great Gatsby._ "

Most of her concern is assuaged, but she can't think of why that would trouble him; he read it by himself the day it was assigned.

She's going to ask another question, but he blurts out before she does, "Tom wasn't the villain," and there's some anger in his voice.

His mother slowly raises an eyebrow.

He finally meets her gaze, almost pleadingly, corrects himself, "He wasn't the only villain."

"Why not?" She asks, as gently as she can, leaving the question open.

"Because, he's just like Daisy. Gatsby was a victim, and Daisy was, and Tom was too. And Daisy–she's just as bad. She knows the consequences of her actions, and she doesn't care; that's villainy."

Martha smiles at how much he must've meditated on this, allows him to breathe in a second of silence before she speaks. "I suppose you're right. Gatsby had to face two antagonists; it's no wonder he lost."

Bruce's face twists, "He was ruined from the start."

She nods, looks a little distracted, "Yes, poor Gatsby."

A pause.

"And it wasn't even one of them he was killed by."

Her son blinks a moment, considers this, as Martha bites back a chuckle and eyes him carefully, waiting for his reaction.

Bruce laughs.

* * *

They take him to work, introduce him to Lucius, who, with Martha and Thomas, runs the company. "One day," they tell him, "he's going to help you run the company too."

Bruce doesn't ask where they will be. His daddy works at a hospital, and if his mommy is not home, she is at the company. But, he reasons that if she at not at the company, she must be with Thomas.

"Hey there, Mr. Wayne." Lucius greets Bruce, who shakes his hand and meets the man's eyes like he was taught, though he fails to speak.

He's got a little awe in his expression and Lucius chuckles at it.

"How are you today?"

Bruce opens and closes his mouth a few times, they finally gathers himself, "Sorry sir, my name is Bruce," he says, little voice shaking sans confidence, "Mr. Wayne is my daddy."

Lucius laughs again, "Very well, _Bruce_. How are you today?"

"I am well, thank you," he says, sounding carefully but thoroughly rehearsed, and only slightly unnatural for it, "How are you?"

"Just fine, thanks," he smiles and offers his hand again, this time to lead the child through the building.

"Mind if I show you around?"

Bruce smiles in earnest and shakes his head emphatically, accepting the hand.

Lucius nods, "Wonderful."

* * *

They are on the balcony, watching the stars, waiting for Thomas to finish his shower, when Martha glances at her watch.

"Aren't you tired, Bruce?" She asks, "Don't you want to go to sleep?"

"I'm not tired," he says, sounding so genuinely truthful Martha thinks she might believe him, even though he ought to be exhausted after today.

"Mm," she considers him for a second, watches him look at her with a colder shade of Thomas's blue eyes, finally says, "I still think you should get some rest. It's getting late, and you need to go to bed."

He doesn't argue with that.

"Okay. G'night, mommy," he hugs her, they kiss one another's cheeks, and he leaves for his room.

She watches, knowing from experience that he will go directly to bed, wondering what exactly she did to inspire such respect.

33, 35, 6

Martha and Thomas sit on a checkered blanket, Martha in a blue summer dress and a sun hat, Thomas wearing shorts and a short sleeved button down blue that matches his eyes. They're in their own backyard, but it feels like a dream.

The weather is perfect, the food is delicious (courtesy of Alfred), and Bruce is having fun.

He's off to "boldly go where no man has gone before," even though the entirety of the manor's grounds are thoroughly reworked on a regular basis.

Come to think of it, Thomas decides Bruce probably knows this and has elected not to care.

He's curious about what lies in the trees, and he's not afraid to look. He wants to venture out for himself, because he's inquisitive and daring.

Thomas is proud of his spirit, despite the faint urgings of his overprotective side.  
They're watching him climb a tree and enjoying the slight breeze and soft sun when he shimmies onto a smaller branch, slowly so as not to scare the bird just inches away, when the limb cracks silently and Bruce finds himself several feet below where he was, the air knocked out him.

"Bruce!"

Both his parents are up in an instant, hurrying to their son.

By the time they reach him, he's sitting up, blinking.

"Ow," he says, childish voice sounding more confused than hurt.

Thomas checks him over while Martha hovers and asks, "Are you alright? How do you feel?"

"I'm okay," he mumbles, looking up at her with concern, like maybe she's the one who's hurt.

"No broken bones," Thomas reports distractedly, continuing to search Bruce.  
"Will you stand up for me, buddy?"

Bruce obliges, beginning to look less bewildered.

"You got a nasty cut on your leg," Thomas murmurs with worry, inspects the bleeding, inch long gash on the back of Bruce's calf.

"I do?" He asks, trying to turn and see it.

Thomas gives a half grin, "Yep," he lifts Bruce into his arms, "Other than that, I think you're alright."

Bruce giggles at being swept into the air.

Martha sighs and meets her husband's eyes.

He nods briefly and she relaxes.

They walk back to the house, Alfred (having sensed the commotion with his telepathy), hurrying to greet them.

Martha explains the situation, and they take Bruce up to his room, set him up in bed, and give him painkillers while Thomas cleans and stitches the cut.

Bruce watches with eager interest and a couple watery eyes, then a smile when it's over.

"Good job, Bruce," Thomas says earnestly, kindly, patting him on the back.

Martha smiles at her son.

* * *

When the stitches are gone, only a little white scar remains, and Bruce is fascinated by it.

He does extensive research, muttering Latin phrases under his breath as he does, intently reading various books and staring at the scar itself.

He studies it in great detail and finds its exact measurements. His parents are a little worried about the idea, but he drops it after several weeks, and he plays no less and attains no fear.

Bruce does not enjoy the scar, but he finds it an excellent subject for test; based on the depth of the cut, perhaps he can determine the appearance of the scar. What he will do with this information, he does not yet know. He simply wants to acquire it.

Bruce never really gets an answer, because he only has one specimen and no other experimental or control groups. It's really not an accurate test without a standard for comparison. He comes to no conclusions and abandons the experiment, labeling it a cold case, 'to be returned to at a later time.'

* * *

Bruce props himself up on the floor next to Thomas.

"Hey buddy, whatcha up to?"

Bruce pushes his textbook at him, "I can't solve this problem."

Thomas squints at it, "Trigonometry?"

Bruce shrugs, seeming preoccupied.

"Okay, let's take a look." Thomas pulls a blank sheet of paper from his notebook and discards everything else.

Two hours later, the problem long since solved, Bruce decides that medical jargon is a breeze, and should be used by the general population to facilitate more precise communication.

Thomas laughs and suggests that Bruce should teach it.

"Maybe I will," he says, eyes unfocused, like he's considering it.

Thomas grins, watching Bruce's expression as the boy turns to look at his father again.

"Why did you want to be a doctor?"

Thomas doesn't even have to hesitate, "So I could help as many people as I could."

"You took an oath."

His father hears the question for what it is.

"Yes. It's not binding except to me; _I will be mindful always of my great responsibility to preserve the health and the life of my patients_."

Bruce's response is swift, and Thomas can tell, he's thought about this before. "Do you like it?"

Thomas meets his son's eyes, holds the evaluating gaze with all the sincerity he can muster, and says, "Yes."

Bruce nods, looks away.

He sighs after a while and rolls onto his back.

Thomas, watching him, smiles again.

"Maybe you should go to sleep now," he glances at his watches, makes a face, "It's late."

"I'm not tired."

"You look tired."

"A _little_ , but it doesn't matter-"

"No, you need to go to sleep, Bruce," fighting the impetus compelling him to chuckle.

His son frowns, but agrees.

"Okay," he hugs Thomas, says, "Goodnight, daddy."

"Goodnight, Bruce. Sweet dreams."

Bruce smiles, "You too."

34, 36, 7

He's taken to reading in the library for hours on end. Thomas can't fathom why Bruce would want to read Hemingway at age seven, but he's certainly not going to question it.

Bruce could probably use some more sun, but he's healthy and he still gets his exercise, so Thomas figures it's fine.

When he calls Bruce's name to tell him it's time to go, the boy looks up. His gaze is intense and piercing, and despite the dissimilar colors, Thomas sees Martha in his pale blue eyes.

* * *

Bruce sits quietly at a chessboard, like he's waiting.

"Bruce?" Thomas asks, hoping to utilize some of his rare free time to bond with his son, "Whatcha doin, buddy?"

Bruce glances his way, "Hi, daddy."

Finding that he's only just been acknowledged, Thomas tries again, "Hey, there." He goes to sit next to Bruce, "What's going on?"

"I'm playing chess," he says, voice pitched high and confused as he looks at his dad, as though he's wondering why it wasn't obvious. (He thought his daddy was smart.)

"Ah," Thomas says, fighting off concern, "Who're you playing with?"

Thomas is pretty sure the greatest chess players of all time have done things like this- play games against themselves in their heads. But he's learned, these past seven years, that he doesn't want or need his child to be different or special. He doesn't care if Bruce is normal or boring, if he's slow or stupid or the most brilliant man on the earth.

Thomas just wants him to be happy.

"No one; I was just pretending!" Again he speaks as if he's wondering if that _wasn't_ implied.

He sounds a little too practiced, a little too bright, but imaginary friends aren't abnormal for a kid Bruce's age.

Thomas rubs his chin, still thinking, but smiles, "Well, would you like to play against me instead?"

The challenged little grin Bruce gives him is answer enough.

Thomas is only mildly surprised when the game is pretty intense; it takes effort to stay ahead of his son. In the end, he tries to let Bruce win, but the child calls him out.

"You're throwing the game!" He says.

"What?" He hadn't expected Bruce to notice, asks like it's a test, "How could you tell?"

"Your moves the entire game were much smarter than _that_."

Thomas laughs. Despite the intelligence it must've taken to see, Bruce's delivery is petulant and childish and belies all his concern. "Alright, you caught me!" He admits, still chuckling.

Bruce scrunches up his nose at the laughter but moves another piece, and Thomas wins by a small margin.

Bruce holds out his hand.

Thomas shakes it.

"Good game," the boy says.

His father smiles, "Yes it was."

After Thomas leaves, Bruce returns his attention to his former playmate, a phantasm named Lily, as she moves her queen to capture his knight, placing his king in checkmate as though they'd never been interrupted.

 _You got me_ , he imagines saying, and she laughs, pleased.

 _You're an awesome friend_ , he tells her, and she returns the compliment, beaming.

 _You are too._

He grins but only in his mind, thinking _fooled you too_ , because Bruce lost both games.

* * *

It's the only real disagreement they've ever had.

"He's just a _kid_ , Martha," Thomas runs a hand across his forehead.

"He's a _genius_ , Thomas," she growls, pressing her hands against the table in front of her, glaring at her husband.

"You think that'll make him _happy_? You think it'll _satisfy_ him for the rest of his _life_?"

" _Yes!_ Can't you see he _wants_ to learn?"

"I know he does!" Thomas's voice raises slightly.

She's quiet again, but this time softly as she rises from her seat, "Then why are you so upset about it?"

Thomas drops his hand down his face.

"I don't _know_. I just- he- he's a _child_."

Martha doesn't respond, stares at him, seeing something else, and the midnight wind doesn't wait for them, sends chimes into merry dances while they soak in the tension.

"I'm sorry," Thomas says, sighing, lifting his head, standing, as he turns to shuffle the papers on the desk behind him.

"I know," she says, and Thomas stops for a second, jarred by her blasé response, and she goes on, a little humor in her voice, marred by exhaustion, "Me too."

He turns back to her and grins softly, sadly.

He leans across the table to plant a kiss on her nose, a platonic gesture of forgiveness and apology.

She accepts, then tilts his chin down and kisses his lips.

He tastes like the sad vapor of anger, and she presses herself against him with more ferocity, willing the charred madness of her spirit to overwhelm their senses and cleanse his hurt from the air.

He accepts until the soft click of shoes makes them pause and look to the doorway, where Alfred clears his throat.

"Sir and Ma'am," he says.

When they speak, it is, naturally, in perfect unison. "Yes, Alfred?" It's automatic, and neither of them are sure when their butler became the owner of the house- which really isn't fair, because it's technically theirs.

"Master Bruce has experienced a nightmare. He is asking for you."

The parents look at each other, suppress the sparks of conflict, and opt for worrying about their son.

"Thanks for letting us know," Thomas says to the older man as they hurry past him.

Alfred steps to the side, "Of course, sir."

He watches them go.

8

There's an excellent theater nearby, and they're showing a Faustian opera called _Mefistofele_ , one of Martha's favorites. Since their tastes align so well, Thomas thinks it's a fantastic idea.

It is, of course, in Italian, but Bruce is in an Italian class, and he needs practice, and both Thomas and Martha took a few courses in college. All in all, it's the perfect opportunity.

So, they go.

* * *

Martha wears the pearl necklace Thomas gave her as a gift, and Bruce grins at the memory of his father's excitement.

Thomas and Bruce wear matching black suits.

Martha calls them her boys.

* * *

Bruce is in awe of the splendor, the sheer magnitude of everything. It's grand and breathtaking and unapologetically exaggerated, and it's unlike anything he's ever seen before.

The music swells and weeps, lifting the audience in wonder and dragging them down to the depths of despair, and the choir sings and howls, and Bruce follows the story well.

The first hour and ten minutes are perfect.

Then the devil's minions begin scrambling to reach hell, hoping to please beelzebub.

With the suddenness only an opera can conjure, the choir's voice swings up and down in fast paced, high pitched screams, shrill and terrifying.

He doesn't recognize most of the words, but catches _time_ , and _night_ and something that sounds like _Sabbath_ , and when he looks at the people clothed in black costumes with horns, he sees bats, like when he fell, and his stomach drops like he's falling. In his mind he sees black wings and hears screeching, and he's scared, the wind knocked out of him and his leg in pain that hasn't registered yet. He's alone and no one knows where he is, no one is looking and no one will find him, and around him swarms death. This is where he's going to die, alone in a well, surrounded by bats, and he's never been more afraid.

Then he feels his father's arm around his shoulders.

"You alright, Bruce?" The whispered voice asks.

Bruce breathes and fights the tears in his eyes, lets himself slump into Thomas' arms.

The flashback ends and Bruce carefully sinks back into reality.

He nods and sniffles, doesn't trust his voice to speak, and relaxes as the segment ends and the devil's party begins.

* * *

The remainder of the opera goes off without a hitch, and at its closing, Bruce is grinning from ear to ear.

Faust, unlike many others in the same situation, refuted his pact with the devil, and the dark lord lost his bargain.

Faust retained his soul, ended the deal, and received forgiveness.

"What did you think, Bruce?" His mother asks, eager for someone to appreciate the opera like she does.

"It was great!" He chirps, looking up at Martha in delight.

She laughs, "Wonderful! I've converted him!"

"Oh no," Thomas looks to the starlit sky in mock despair as they leave the opera house, and demands of the crisp midnight air, "How will I survive with two of them?"

Martha laughs again and gently hits his shoulder.

Bruce is still smiling when they walk down the dark alley.


End file.
